Farewell to a Fighter

Lleyton Hewitt’s final singles match, a quietly inexorable 6-2, 6-4, 6-4 loss to David Ferrer in Rod Laver Arena, was not one to add to his all-time highlight reel. The two aging workhorses did what they’ve done for decades: They set up camp at the baseline and ran each other from side to side; they rallied and rallied until Hewitt could rally no more. Yet there was a moment that, in its blend of defiance and fragility, summed up Hewitt’s career, and showed us again what made him an athlete to cheer and emulate.

It came roughly halfway through, and represented his last serious chance of turning a rout into a contest. Ferrer was serving up a break, at 4-3 in the second set. To that point, he had been in total control, and had even kept the restless Aussie Fanatics stuck in their seats. You had the feeling that it was now-or-never time for Hewitt, and apparently he had the same feeling. Hewitt bore down and began to turn the rallies in his favor for the first time. When he moved forward and put a volley away to reach break point, he pumped his fist and the crowd roared in response. Ferrer, who subsequently missed his first serve, looked like he might be rattled. As he tossed the ball for his second serve, Hewitt bent low and prepared to pounce.

And then he didn't pounce. Instead, as the ball spun into his strike zone, Hewitt took a tentative swipe at a forehand and dropped the ball into the middle of the net. He let out a groan, and the air went back out of the stadium.

That wasn’t the end of Hewitt’s push, of course. Again, at deuce, he moved forward and ended the point with a forehand winner. And again, on break point, he retreated and let Ferrer eventually hit the forehand winner. The pattern would be repeated seven times in all; each time Hewitt stepped forward aggressively at deuce, and each time he took a step back when he had a chance to break. The forehands that found the corner on one point would find the net on the next. After one of those misses, Hewitt’s mother, Cherilyn, flashed a wry smile before she went back to urging her son on. She’d seen this movie before, and she probably had a pretty good idea of how it was going to end.

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Hewitt has always been known as the Little Battler. For the generation that came after him and usurped him, the Big 4 generation, he remains the embodiment of the competitive ideal. In an on-court video tribute after Thursday's match, two of those four, Rafael Nadal and Andy Murray, called Hewitt their idol. Ferrer, while he’s just a year younger, said he keeps a T-shirt signed by the Aussie in his personal tennis museum at home.

One of Hewitt's early coaches, Darren Cahill, nicknamed him Rusty, after Chevy Chase’s son in the Vacation movies—the Hewitts were tennis’s version of the Griswolds. The name has stuck because it suits Lleyton's blue-collar style. Hewitt is under six feet, has never had a bomb serve or a killer forehand, and never felt particularly comfortable going on the attack. He had none of the obvious traits, in other words, that we look for in a future star. Running, defending, making balls, varying his locations and trajectories, competing: This was where Rusty excelled.

His game could look safe and monotonous on TV, but closer scrutiny revealed hidden subtleties. Two of my favorite live-tennis experiences were watching him dismantle Tim Henman in the 2002 Wimbledon semifinals, and Milos Raonic at the Australian Open in 2012. Against the net-rushing Henman, Hewitt won by moving his serve around and keeping him at the baseline; against the towering Raonic, he won by slicing the ball as low as possible. They were simple, no-frills strategies, but they were winning ones.

Hewitt will be remembered, rightly, as someone who overcame his limitations through pure, cussed resolve. He was a two-time year-end No. 1, a two-time Grand Slam champion, and a two-time Davis Cup winner; he’ll be a Hall-of-Famer in a few years. In the early days, he was brash and brazen, a clutch player who thrived on antagonism. He also wasn’t all that popular, even Down Under. The Aussies like their legends to win with a roguish wink; Hewitt committed the sin of taking himself too seriously.

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But as with every tennis great, the sport’s fans began to love Hewitt more, right around the time he began to win less. As the injuries accumulated and he dropped out of the Top 5, the Top 10, the Top 20, the Top 50 (he’s currently No. 308), Hewitt didn’t change much outwardly. He kept his baseball cap firmly pointed backward (it was his version of working man's lunch-bucket), his face remained red with competitive fire, and his between-point swagger was still that of a man who knew exactly what he was doing out there. Everything was the same, except the winning part.

In 2015, Hewitt played three Grand Slams; each time he was eliminated in a grueling five-set match. It was a pattern that had been set long ago: How many times over the years have we watched him fall behind early, mount a furious rally and take the lead, only to lose in the end? In his demeanor, which was always combative, Hewitt never betrayed any nerves, never exhibited anything but confidence. The fragility only came through in his swing.

And maybe that's why he’s so widely revered by players and beloved by fans. On the one hand, Hewitt is a symbol of the fragility, both mental and physical, that comes with age. On the other hand, he’s a symbol of the often-futile fight that every athlete wages against it. Rusty lost his battles as often as he won them, but who can’t relate to that?

And maybe that’s why my favorite Hewitt viewing experience was seeing him in defeat. It was the 2009 Wimbledon quarterfinals against Andy Roddick, on one of those sun-splashed days at the All England Club when a see-saw five-set match happily takes all afternoon. Roddick won the first set, Hewitt won the second 12-10 in a tiebreaker, Roddick won the third, Hewitt won the fourth, and, inevitably, Roddick won the fifth by a single break. Hewitt had given everything, had scrambled and sprawled all over the grass, and jabbed his fingers at his face in his trademark celebratory style. When the last point was over, though, he walked to the net, took off his hat, gripped Roddick’s hand, and flashed him a smile of respect and enjoyment in a job well done.

That day and many other days, Hewitt showed us that it's the battle, not the winning, that means everything.